


Isn't It Ironic?

by RZZMG



Series: Potter het couple stories [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Co-workers, Drama, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, HP Drizzle, Kissing in the Rain, Romance, garden party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5020063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RZZMG/pseuds/RZZMG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pansy's mad for her one-time rival, Harry Potter, but he doesn't seem to want to take their secret relationship public, despite her numerous attempts. She's giving him one more shot before calling it quits—the annual M.L.E. summer picnic, which she's hosting this year as a garden party. Potter had better show this time, or so help him, she'll skin his mangy hide!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isn't It Ironic?

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> This was my HP-Drizzle Fest 2015 entry. Here was the prompt I worked from:
> 
> _Prompt: #11 - Her garden party is rained out and it is all his fault. Now what is she to do with herself for an afternoon? Any optional extras: Weather charm? Pansy blaming him because she can but perhaps not because it's actually his fault. Harry stepped on a spider?_
> 
>  
> 
> This wonderful prompt tickled my muse in so many different ways that there were literally 4 different stories that came out of it! I finally settled on this iteration for the fest, which was my fav of the bunch. Hope it is okay, despite the fact it's twisted the prompt a bit. Thank you so much to our fantastic mod, "nearlyconscious" for running this fest again! Very excited to participate this round.

It was ironic. For the first time in Pansy Parkinson's life, she'd put forth a sincere effort for someone besides herself.

 

For a pseudo-recovering narcissist, that was a big step.

 

Joking aside, she'd really picked up the hammer this time... and done it with panache, as usual—pulled out all the stops, used up every ounce of political cred left to her family's name, burned through a fourth of her personal inheritance, manipulated friends and co-workers until her lips were blue and their minds numb from her whispering in their ears, and used up her year's allotment of non-personal holidays at work for the time-off bits.

 

None of it had made a dent, though.

 

Harry Potter hadn't shown up. He'd blown off the party.

 

Needless to say, it was beginning to seem to Pansy that L-I-F-E, in all its capitalised glory, didn't give a leprechaun's left testicle about the sweat equity a person put into it, because it was all about fate anyway... or karma... or satirical sadism. Probably all three at the same time, actually.

 

For instance: she was mad for her boss, Harry Potter, a man she'd at one time loathed, then feared, and who now starred in her every masturbatory fantasy. A man she absolutely shouldn't be shagging on the sly if she actually wanted to keep her job, regardless of the fact that they were both single and reasonably attractive people. A man who's love-making style and appetites perfectly matched hers, and whose body fitted hers like lock and key. A man whose simple kiss could make her head spin and her heart pound, and whose touch made her burn and want in ways she'd never known before.

 

A man who refused to publicly acknowledge their affair in any way, shape, or form.

 

A man who still had the hots for his former fiancée, despite the fact the witch was shaking the trees with that man-slag, Blaise Zabini.

 

See? Intentional cosmic irony, right there.

 

And yet, somehow, she'd gotten the brilliant idea in her head that throwing the garden party of the year for their department would somehow please him, despite the fact he treated her like his dirty secret.

 

He hadn't even bothered to R.S.V.P. and his shaggy mop of black hair was nowhere to be seen in the crowd. She'd made two full circuits of the party just to be sure.

 

"What did you expect, _moumoune_? Why buy the cow when he's had the milk, the cream, the butter, and the fucking yoghurt for free already?" she hissed at her reflection in the mirror, slamming the palm of her hand against it and silently cursing herself a fool for acting the part of a first year Hufflepuff with a heartbreak. 

 

Oh, yes, give her an upper-case ‘O’ for effort, though, because Pansy had really gone the extra mile for today's party! The china she’d brought out of storage and had the elves polish up was priceless Louis XIV plate with gold trim, the silverware was her favourite set—procured from the Ravenclaw estate two-hundred years prior by one of her ancestors when that lineage had finally gone extinct, and the hand-embroidered Irish linen tablecloths and napkins had been air dried and hand-pressed. Brilliant bouquets of her mother's prized Tranquillity, Charlotte, and Wisley roses had been meticulously arranged in Egyptian silver urns and Russian vases on the long table, perfuming the air with the lovely scent of full summer.

 

The fragrance reminded her of the night Potter had first come to her, in the hour after Draco's birthday party had ended and he'd unexpectedly Apparated onto her balcony as if mentally summoned, looking like some sort of demented Romeo, glasses askew, hair mussed... mouth unstoppable.

 

Carefully, she blotted around her eyes to keep her make-up from running.

 

She'd really liked him that night. Actually, she'd liked him a lot since then as well. The man was an insatiable lover, careful but dominant, and surprisingly imaginative. He'd never failed to ensure her pleasure before his own—a first for her. Most men she'd dated tended to care only about their own ending, but Harry... he had resourceful fingers and an ingenious tongue, and he delighted in using them both on her until she was mindless, willing, and well-sated. When the afterglow was done with them, though... that's when she didn't like him so much.

 

After sex, he typically left as quickly as any man she'd taken to her bed before. No cuddling, no sleeping over. His typical M.O. was to snog her senseless before he Disapparated away, guaranteeing she would be too dizzy to stop him or to voice a complaint. At work, he never spoke to her, either. When he wasn't in meetings or out in the field, he made sure there was no chance for a confrontation by keeping his door open and taking lunch hours that were odd so hers never coincided with his.

 

The few times she'd tried to contact him via note to talk about what they were doing, and to convince him to openly court her, she'd been ignored.

 

...Okay, yes, the first time had been a carefully-worded suggestion that he meet her somewhere public to discuss what had happened, the next three times had been a demand that he treat her like a proper lady and escort her to dinner somewhere nice if he was going to insist they carry on shagging like rabbits, and this last time had included a subtly implied threat of blackmail if he didn't meet with her someplace other than in her bedroom. In her defence, she'd been desperate to get something other than **"RETURN TO SENDER–ADDRESSEE WILL SEE YOU LATER SO BE READY** " written in his hand on her notes when the family owl brought them back. She was a pure-blood girl and there were expectations she'd been raised to have in regards to men who were not just fuck buddies, and Potter's implication that he was only interested in meeting up with her for sex was, to be frank, beginning to feel degrading.

 

Pansy had nearly told him after the last round of sex a week ago to get out and stay gone, but then he'd stopped at her balcony door and looked back at her with those intense, green eyes that made her knees weak and he'd wished her 'goodnight' in a soft, tender voice, and all she could think to say in that moment was, "See you soon," like some sort of lovesick puppy.

 

—And then she'd finished up the last of the plans for this god-awful summer picnic-slash-garden party for their department in an effort to make him happy.

 

Every detail had been perfected, just for him. Each of the Kent strawberries, Italian blood oranges, and Spanish Verna lemons for use in the Pimm's today had been individually selected for their fruit perfection—no blemishes allowed. The menu of hors d'oeuvres ran a gamut of tastes, everything from Cabot clothbound cheddar gougères to chive-flecked salmon Croque-Monsieur to a tropical fresh fruit tower... two-dozen different delights in all to appeal to anyone's taste. No one could possible say she'd skimped. As for the evening's meal, the Plum and Watercress salad and the cucumber-mint yoghurt sauce would be the ideal accompaniments to the soft grilled lamb kebabs, served Greek style. For dessert, a small selection of French and Italian pastry cookies brought in fresh that morning from various bakeries in Paris and Rome were the sweetest confections the earth had ever known—light years better than those awful Treacle Tarts Potter so enjoyed.

 

But the food wasn't the half of it.

 

She'd set up a separate area for games and gambling, too, so her guests could have fun, not just mingle: _palle-maille_ , _jeu de volant_ , Swivenhodge, Basset, Faro, and Tarot card readings. A lover's telescope was dragged out of her father's old study and set-up for astrology enthusiasts who wanted to stay past the setting of the sun. And a series of reclining Roman couches had been positioned around the area so those who didn't wish to play—but who wanted, for instance, to sit down at the side of their sometimes lover in public—could enjoy the spectacle of the games as well.

 

She'd invited everyone in their department for the party, even the people whose names she didn't care to know or who no longer worked with them, including Longbottom, who hadn't been an Auror in over three years.

 

She'd done it all for him—for Harry Potter, a man who didn't want her except as a sometimes convenience.

 

Merlin, she was pathetic.

 

Fuck it. She wasn't going to sit here and mope, not when she had two hundred guests milling around outside on her back lawn, drinking her Krug champagne and eating her Ramora cavier.

 

In a case like this there was only one thing for any self-respecting Slytherin girl to do: pretend Potter giving her the cut was all a part of her grandiose plan and it didn't harm her either way. Improvisation had always been her strength, anyway.

 

With a final sniff and a heavy sigh, she waved her wand over her face to dry up her tears and fix her ruined make-up. She checked her reflection in the mirror once more— _la, perfection!_ —and setting her mental mask firmly back in place, she unlocked the door and stepped out.

 

The stretch of second floor hallway was, thankfully, empty of guests. By the time she’d cleared it and was heading down the marble staircase to join her guests, she’d achieved complete emotional imperviousness. Gone was the basket case that had earlier fled to the loo for a total meltdown in private after realising she’d been given the kiss off for the second time. In her place stood the flawless hostess who was ready to serve with a ready platitude on her tongue and a plastic smile upon her lips.

 

The moment she stepped through the French doors heading into the back garden area, her dragon-breathing, baby-eating mother pounced.

 

“Oh, there you are, darling!” Phaedrea Parkinson fawned, making an exaggerated production of greeting her daughter as if they were the best of friends rather than two cats waiting for the opportune moment to scratch each other’s eyes out. Her hand on Pansy’s shoulder tightened in warning as she leaned forward to air-kiss Pansy’s cheeks. “Such a wonderful party you’ve cobbled together here at the last minute, my dear! Miranda Fawley and I were just discussing what a grand effort you’ve gone to for Mister Potter and the rest of your colleagues.” As she pulled away, she waved a hand, indicating an elderly woman in a funny hat who sidled up to them. “We’d almost decided to come tell you that directly, in fact, when you’d hurried inside. Is anything the matter, dear?”

 

_Translation: Cute decorations. By the way, your boy-toy's not even here. Did you notice the man you’ve been fucking under my roof for two months, who you've thrown this expensive shindig for, has socially cut you dead in front of all these people? You'd better hope none of them know as I do about your silly infatuation with the great Harry Potter, because we'd never live down that scandal. And what were your running away from this time, you ridiculous child? And why the fuck did you ditch me with this blabbering, old fool?_

 

Pansy pasted a fake smile onto her face and became very contrite of a sudden. “I apologise most sincerely for my brief absence, Mrs. Fawley, Mother. I had to step out for a moment to attend to some personal business. Everything is tickety-boo now, though, but I thank you so much for your genuine concern.”

 

_Translation: Sorry I left you alone with my gossiping, backstabbing mother, Mrs. Fawley. Hope your ears aren’t bleeding too badly. Mum, mind your own fucking business, you bitch whore from hell. P.S. I hate you._

 

Her mother’s expression made it clear that they were going to discuss the particulars of her hasty exit later, when they were alone.

 

Pansy’s serpentine smile told her mum to go take a long walk off a short cliff.

 

“Well, how are you enjoying the party so far, Mrs. Fawley?” she asked, pretending to care.

 

Thankfully, that conversation was discharged quickly with a few party nods and some false sympathy for Mrs. Fawley's painful episodes of gout and fatty liver, and Pansy extricated herself from it fairly easily with a fake wave to someone across the lawn.

 

“I really must see to the other guests now, but it was a pleasure, Mrs. Fawley. Perhaps you might visit the manor more often, for tea in the afternoon? I’m working most days, but I’m sure Mother would enjoy the company immensely… wouldn’t you, Mother?”

 

Phaedrea Parkinson never stumbled, even when caught off-guard. Smoothly, she lied, “Absolutely. We might consider even asking Annabelle Moody and Prudence Rowle to join us...”

 

Pansy tuned her out, smirking inwardly at the fact that her viper-tongued mother was now stuck playing nice-nice with a woman she hated because she was a stickler for the old, pure-blood social customs.

 

See? Intentional cosmic irony, right there.

 

Pansy left them discussing the particulars of their meeting as she headed for Blaise, who was currently near the banquet table under the catering tents, stuffing his face with garlic-roasted shrimp skewers, tail-off.

 

Truthfully, if she hadn't had such a wide-on for Potter, Zabini would definitely have been a satisfactory choice for the marriage mart. He was F-I-T, all in caps, knew how to work his meat, and was wealthier than Satan, thanks to his raving success as a male escort. Sadly, he also had a bit of a commitment issue and a love for food that was, sooner rather than later, going to turn him F-A-T instead.

 

Marching up to the man in question, she grabbed his elbow and gave it a hard yank to get his attention. “You brought Astoria,” she hissed at him under her breath, assuring no one else was nearby to overhear. “Where is the She-Weasel? Considering you’ve been faux courting her for two whole months now to keep her out of Potter’s sight for me, I’d assumed she’d come as your date today. What happened?”

 

As she waited for his reply, she ran her fingers over the fabric on his arm; a Dormeuil blend, but definitely a Brioni bespoke suit from the cut. Sexy. _Purr. Purr._

 

Wiping his fingers on a fine linen napkin, Blaise shrugged, unconcerned by her ire. “I received an Owl this morning telling me she was bowing out due to illness.”

 

 “Illness?" She hadn't heard anything about the Weasley girl being sick yesterday, when she'd nonchalantly asked Granger if her friend was really going to come to today's party. "Really? And you didn't suspect she was just blowing you off?”

 

“Of course I did, which is why I Floo-called her minutes after the owl arrived at my window. The Looney witch answered. Said her flatmate was busy vomiting up her breakfast and to call back later. I could even hear Ginny heaving in the background. It didn't sound feigned to me.”

 

Pansy tapped one perfectly painted fingernail against her lips, considering that. “Hmmm... Retching up rainbows that early in the morning? Sounds like a case of being stuffed, rather than eating too many buttered croissants. If you take my meaning.”

 

Blaise’s hand paused with another shrimp skewer half-way to his mouth, and his complexion suddenly turned an amusing shade of grey. He blinked, his eyes glazing over as his thoughts turned inward.

 

“Shit,” he growled.

 

The playboy of Slytherin House had finally been caught by the one Gryffindor in the universe who had vowed never to be tied down again after being dumped by Harry Potter last year.

 

See? Intentional cosmic irony, right there.

 

She tried really hard not to grin at the slow panic so obviously beginning to choke her poor friend to death. “Indeed.” She summoned one of the help from the side to come over and take his plate and napkin from him before his shaking hands lost all feeling and he dropped the precious Louis XIV gold-rimmed china and the fair Irish linen into the grass. "Would you like to use our hansom?" she generously offered. "It's magical, as Mother is allergic to horse hair. Or would you prefer the expediency of the Floo? I definitely don't suggest Apparating right now."

 

"I've got to... I have to... Later," he stammered and he was off like a fox being chased by the hounds.

 

As she watched Zabini hurry away into her house to find the closest Floo, Pansy sighed. _And another one bites the dust_ , she thought, recalling one of Granger's peculiar, but apt Muggle sayings.

 

Speaking of Mrs. Granger-Malfoy...

 

The bushy-haired firebrand was across the lawn near the area set up for sports and games, talking to the Minister, of course, and she was animated, as usual. Salazar help them all, the woman was on another crusade, wasn't she? It was obvious by the emphatic way she waved her hands around and how Shacklebolt was seeking to calm her down with an offer of punch. Probably on about limiting Puffskein breeding licenses or passing some new law forbidding Sphinxes from being used as Gringotts vault guardians.

 

Pansy rolled her eyes and set to head that one off at the pass, as any good hostess might. It wouldn't do to have the Minister leave the party this early because he'd been chased off by the Ministry's self-appointed moral crusader.

 

"Minister Shacklebolt," she greeted the man, interrupting Hermione's tirade about werewolves being people, too. "How good of you to come today."

 

Half an hour later, she'd managed to extricate herself and Granger from that discussion, and hurriedly moved them towards the alcohol table. A drink right then would be welcome. "Try not to chase my guests off, will you?" she chastised her friend. "I know you've got the need to reform the world and all, but this event is important to me."

 

Granger sighed. "You're right, of course. It's just... Kingsley's always ducking out when he sees me coming, and there are some important things I wanted to—"

 

"Cram down his throat. Yes, I know." She handed Hermione a glass of chilled champagne. "You wouldn't be you, otherwise. Tenacious to the last."

 

Granger stared at her with that too-perceptive gaze of hers as she took the glass, but didn't sip from it. "Some things are worth fighting for," she evenly said.

 

Pansy flushed and took a hefty swallow from her own glass. It was no secret that Granger had practically bullied her way into the role of acting as her personal champion post-war, after witnessing Pansy being roughed-up and being denied service by various shop owners in Diagon Alley. She still, to this day, didn't understand why the woman cared, especially given their antagonistic childhood and that Pansy had attempted in a moment of blind panic and fear to sell out her best friend to Voldemort to prevent a battle to the death between the two sides.

 

Time to whip out a classic distraction.

 

"Where's Draco?" she asked to cover her embarrassment.

 

That was another reason why she and Granger had called a ceasefire between them: Draco, Pansy's best friend since year one Hoggiewarts, had gone and done the unpopular thing and fallen in love with the one witch his parents had absolutely loathed. It gave Pansy and Hermione no end of entertainment to remember Lucius and Narcissa's pasty, stoic, tight-lipped faces at their only son's wedding (especially as the uppity arseholes had deemed Pansy unfit for their son back during their teen years, when she and Draco had briefly dated). Frequently, she and Granger laughed over margaritas to the memory.

 

See? Intentional cosmic irony, right there.

 

Speaking of alcoholic beverages... "And why aren't you drinking?" she added, noting Granger holding onto her glass without having even taken a sip yet.

 

"I... I get headaches from the sulphites."

 

Pansy raised an eyebrow to that. "Really? Because I recall you consuming quite a bit of the stuff at your wedding last year. You were a dancing fool for it."

 

Her companion's blush was as bright red as the chiffon summer blouse she was currently wearing, and her hand went automatically to her abdomen, stroking over it in a nervous gesture.

 

Well, well. It seemed Blaise wasn't the only one with an impending baby issue to untangle...

 

Pansy smirked. "I'll give you my mother's favourite gold locket if you'll let me be there when ol' Lucius finds out his family is now officially knocked off the list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

 

Granger grabbed her hand, desperate. "Draco doesn't know yet. I want to surprise him. Promise you won't say anything."

 

Filing this conversation away for future extortion opportunities, Pansy gave her a reassuring pat on the hand. "Sure, sure. Pinky promise, and all that girly shit. Congratulations. So, when are you due?"

 

"Early March."

 

Pansy did the calculations in her head. Her smirk became a shark-like grin. "Seems Draco's birthday party was a success for more than just the She-Weasel and Blaise then, hmm?"

 

Obviously it was, as that was the same night Potter had come looking for her at her house...

 

_Don't go there. No moping!_

 

Hermione blinked, owl-like in her astonishment. "Ginny's with Blaise?"

 

"Oh, she's more than just 'with' him, darling," Pansy relayed with relish. "If my guess is correct, baby Granger-Malfoy may be coming along right around the same time as baby Weasley-Zabini."

 

Granger covered her exclamation of surprise with a hand. "That's—" Her eyes glazed over as a sudden, unwelcome thought occurred to her. "Bloody hell. I should go speak to Draco right away, then. You know how competitive he is, especially with his fellow Slytherins, and  _especially_  with Zabini. He'll want to have a name picked out before Blaise decides on one, and that's something we're going to fight about, I just know it."

 

Pansy laughed. "I take it you don't fall in with that ridiculous Black custom of naming for stars or flowers."

 

"Absolutely not. I refuse to name my daughter Vega or Rose or Pallas, and no son of mine will be named something as ridiculous as Lisianthus or Comet or Scorpius—all of which the few portraits that _do_  talk to me in his family's home have 'suggested' over the past year since our marriage."

 

Her snort of derision was music to Pansy's ears. She loved it when Granger showed off her more cynical side.

 

"The Malfoys and the Blacks can all rail to the moon and Draco can beg me until he's blue in the face, it isn't happening," she declared, getting her self-righteous feathers into a nice ruffle once more. "This calls for a list!" Just before she hurried off, she looked over Pansy's head and smiled, obviously recognising someone in the crowd. "Oh, finally! I thought he'd never show. Never on time for anything, I swear."

 

"Who?"

 

Pansy started to turn around, but stopped when Granger said, "Harry, of course. He's just stepped through the garden doors and is looking around now." The witch enthusiastically waved at her best friend to get his attention. "Ah, he's seen me. Good. Here he comes now."

 

A riot of butterflies suddenly erupted in Pansy's belly. That no-good, rotten arsehole had actually shown up to her event? Without RSVP-ing?!

 

"What?" she whispered, stunned by the implication. "He's actually here? In the same place as me, in public?"

 

Granger stopped and really looked at her then.

 

There was a moment when Pansy swore the other woman was using Legilimency on her, the pressure behind her eyes was so great, but rationally she knew no spell had been cast. Hermione was just an incredibly intense and perceptive person; her dark gaze seemed to sear into a person's soul, pulling apart their secrets and yanking out of them the truth, holding it up to the light. It was, Pansy thought, her greatest strength... and her most annoying talent.

 

"Oh. I see," she said, and it was obvious that she did.

 

Pansy wanted to curl up and die right there, feeling terribly exposed.

 

Her friend's eyes shifted to that same spot over Pansy's left shoulder. "Harry's definitely headed in this direction, walking right past people who are trying to get his attention. He looks quite determined." She suddenly grinned and a mischievous twinkle glinted in her eyes. "He has a bouquet of flowers in his hand."

 

"What?" If it were possible for Pansy to be more amazed, she certainly had never felt such a thing before. "Flowers? Why?"

 

"Well, I'm quite sure they're not meant for me," her friend teased, taking an inordinate amount of pleasure out of watching Pansy's sweat.

 

"You're becoming more Slytherin every day," Pansy accused her.

 

Granger just shrugged. "It's your fault. Yours and Draco's. You're a bad influence on me."

 

"Pish, you could have easily been sorted my house all on your own." She felt suddenly fidgety, unsure as she imagined Potter bearing down on her, crossing the long lawn and by-passing people just to get to her side. "Do you think they're for me... the flowers?" It seemed terribly important a point just then, for a reason she couldn't explain.

 

"Why wouldn't they be?"

 

"Because..." It seemed embarrassing to admit it aloud, but if anyone could and would give her a straight, honest answer, it would be Granger. "He's been ignoring me in public since the night of Draco's birthday. He won't court me as I've asked him to, but he has no problem visiting my bed."

 

Granger's smile bloomed. "Sounds like classic Harry denial. He does things like that when he either doesn't think he deserves something good or isn't sure that what he wants is good for him. I'd say he's definitely made up his mind about you, though, if the look on his face is anything to go by. Very determined, in a knight on a white horse sort of way."

 

Secretly, inside her chest, Pansy's heart was somersaulting. Her idiot, sexy, git lover was about to do something terribly ridiculous and amazingly romantic in front of all of their friends (minus Blaise and his chundering ginger, of course), the whole of their department _and_  the Minister of Magic (office bragging rights were finally all hers!), and most importantly, her bitch queen mother (who, Pansy decided, was going to have to do a whole lot of fawning and grovelling to have access to this new, important political connection, the lolly cunt).

 

It was a dream come true!

 

Of course, it wouldn't do to let anyone, even Granger, know she was actually excited about it. "He wouldn't dare declare himself here, would he? In front of everyone?" she asked, feigning alarm at the thought.

 

Her friend believed the act. She patted Pansy on the arm and stepped back. "Of course he would. He's a Gryffindor. Good luck!" She manoeuvered around her and headed towards the house without another word.

 

Pansy downed the rest of her glass of champagne in one go and shakily put it on the table before her, preparing to turn to face the man who had nearly, almost, maybe only a little broken her heart with this rather inconsiderate treatment of her.

 

_Calm. You can do this._

 

"Pansy."

 

She turned, not recognising that over the brief period of time that she'd been under the caterer's tent with Granger that the fickle English weather had turned as well. The skies above were grey; a storm front was moving in and it looked like it might rain. The wind had picked up, too, causing the canvas tents above her head to billow, but in that moment, all Pansy could think about was how edible Potter looked in his black Auror robes.

 

She'd always been a sucker for a man in uniform, but the way Harry Potter filled out his made her into a drooling fool. His body was tight, bunched with sleek, strong muscle from shoulders to calves. He was F-I-T to rival Blaise. Kissable lips, especially the bottom one. And his eyes always burned with a green incandescence that was mesmerising. Today, the pale, jagged scar on his forehead was partially hidden by the flop of black, messy hair that looked a little more wind-blown than normal.

 

"I don't recall you RSVP-ing," she pointed out a tad miffed, crossing her arms and staring him down. Why should she make this easy on him, after what he'd put her through? She'd even cried a little today over feeling shafted. The least he could do was squirm.

 

He seemed taken aback by her greeting. Fidgeting under her glare, he stuck his hand out to her, presenting her with the flowers.

 

"I'm gate crashing."

 

She took one look at the bouquet of flowers and felt all her anger melt away... It was a large bunch of pansies in a variety of brilliant colours, all tied together with a green silk ribbon. "Oh," she gasped, reaching for them with trembling hands. Her blood pounded through her as she took them from him. "They're perfect."

 

There was a long spill of silence before Potter filled it, awkwardly. "They... they stand for memory, togetherness. Pansies, I mean."

 

"I know." She'd been told that from her beloved grandmother since she'd been in nappies. "They represent a... a love union." She dropped her eyes to the bunch of flowers and quickly brought them to her nose, inhaling their sweet scent in distraction. Had she said too much there? She hoped she hadn't crossed a line.

 

Potter was silent again, as if considering her words. Finally, he cleared his throat. "I picked them myself, from a clearing in Ettrick Forest. Flew over them and it was like... I just knew."

 

She glanced at him through the fringe of her lashes, keeping the flowers up, hiding her expression. "Knew what?"

 

He gazed into her eyes, capturing her again with that charming, passionate fire that always burned when he looked at her. Reaching out, he touched her wrist, applied a bit of pressure to get her to lower the flowers so nothing would be between them, and then pulled her into his embrace.

 

The skies picked that exact moment to open up, dumping a deluge all over them.

 

See? Intentional cosmic irony, right there.

 

Nosey, voyeuristic guests, who had gathered around them to get a front row seat on the gossip of Potter's private life, suddenly squealed as they were caught out in the rain and ran for the house or the nearby garden shed. House-elves popped into the yard and began scrambling to cover up the food and move all of the furniture under the waterproof tents.

 

Harry didn't budge an inch. He didn't let her go, either. In fact, he hardly seemed to notice the sheets of water now drenching the both of them. His attention was solely focussed on her. "I knew this," he murmured and dropped his head, claiming her mouth in the kiss to end all kisses.

 

Pansy flung her arms around his neck and went with it, relishing the P.D.A. in all its awful, wonderful glory. In Harry's arms, she felt warm, safe. Yes, her makeup and carefully coiffed hairdo were now undone by the storm and her garden party was truly ruined now that the guest of honour had finally arrived— _la, who cared!_ —but she was right where she'd schemed so hard to be for weeks. No way was she giving this up!

 

"Does this mean you're going to take me on a proper date now?" she asked sometime later when they both came up for air.

 

He smiled against her mouth. "I kept telling you I would. **'RETURN TO SENDER–ADDRESSEE WILL SEE YOU LATER SO BE READY'** , remember? It was you who was never home when I came by to pick you up."

 

She gaped at him. "But... but..."

 

"Either that or we never made it out of your bedroom." He chuckled against her throat as he bent to place nipping kisses there. "Have to admit, though, I'd rather have been inside you than outside mingling anyway."

 

Pansy sighed, giving in, realising what a fool she'd been to misread his intentions.

 

"So, was this enough of a public display for you?" he asked, pressing his forehead to hers and meeting her eye. "Or do you need more than the Head Auror rushing in from a field assignment so as not to miss your special event, presenting you with wild flowers he picked by hand along the way, kissing you before all and sundry, including your awful mother, and declaring himself your beau, even against Ministry regs of co-worker fraternization? Because if you need more, I can give it to you, love. Just say so."

 

_S-W-O-O-N!_

 

"I think this was adequate, Mister Potter," she replied. "For now."

 

"So... can we go up to your room now?" he asked, suggestively waggling his eyebrow at her from behind his spectacles.

 

She glanced over at the guests who were now inside her house, pressed up against the windows and looking out through the French doors, hoping for a gander at what she and the famous Harry Potter—former enemies, current co-workers, and most definitely lovers—were getting up to while alone out in the rain-drenched garden. Her mother's scowling, jealous face through the glass made her heart do a little jig in delight.

 

"Yes, I think you've more than earned it today."

 

Harry turned to look back up at the house, noting all the attention he was garnering. "Maybe you shouldn't leave all these people. You did work yourself to the bone to plan this party." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Yes, I noticed."

 

She waved his concerns off. "It's only a party. La! Besides, my disappearance will force my mother to have to play indoor host to two-hundred people she doesn't know or like, if only to get them out of her mother's old house sooner rather than later. Honestly, her stress is all the afternoon delight I need."

 

Swinging Pansy up into his arms, Harry grinned at her. "I hope not. I'm in the mood for lots of love union stuff."

 

With a faux suffering sigh, Pansy gave in. "If we must."

 

He chuckled. "Hold on to me, love."

 

As they Disapparated away to her bedroom at her home, she had one final interesting thought: For the first time in her life, she'd put forth a sincere effort for someone besides herself, and that love had come back for her ten-fold. Some things, it seemed were simply a matter of fate...and karma... and a little bit of satirical sadism all rolled into one.

 

See? Intentional cosmic irony, right there.

 

**_~FIN~_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dormeuil blend = A men's suit designer and manufacturer known for using only the finest and rarest materials in the world. Their fabrics are extremely expensive. Swedish.
> 
> Brioni suit = Another high margin men's suit designer and manufacturer. Italian. All of Daniel Craig's 'James Bond 007' movie suits are Brioni-made.
> 
> bespoke = A term used to refer to a customer-tailored suit, one of a kind for a specific individual (not made from a pattern).
> 
> hansom = A one person carriage transport (typically a cab for hire by the upper class) used during the Victorian era in England.
> 
> According to JKR's new Pottermore material, Neville Longbottom became an Auror along with Harry and Ron immediately after the Final Battle of Hogwarts. He stayed on the job for an unspecified number of years before resigning from service to take over the Herbology post at Hogwarts for the retiring Professor Sprout. 
> 
> _palle-maille_ = a lawn game similar to croquet. 
> 
> _jeu de volant_ = Battledore and Shuttlecock, a lawn game similar to badminton. 
> 
> Swivenhodge = a precursor game to Quidditch that is played similarly to modern tennis, only with broomsticks and a pig's bladder, according to _Quidditch Through The Ages_. 
> 
> Basset = a card game derived from the 15th century that found its heyday in England in the early 18th century. 
> 
> Faro = a card game popular during the Regency/Victorian/Edwardian eras. 
> 
> _moumoune_ = French for 'wimp' or 'cry baby'.


End file.
